Bonfire (32 page)

‘A wife must never lie to her husband,’ Suleiman said. ‘Is that another lesson I will have to teach you?’ Magda remained silent. ‘I shall ask you again. What is this?’

‘It’s a tracker,’ she said.

‘A tracker,’ Suleiman repeated.

‘Yes, it sends a signal that identifies my location.’ Suleiman scowled with simmering rage.

‘I know what a tracker does,’ he said. ‘Why do you have it?’ Magda hesitated. Suleiman hit her again.

‘British Intelligence insisted,’ she said. ‘They told me it was for my protection.’ The scowl on Suleiman’s face deepened and then morphed to one of furious pensiveness. Like an animal sensing danger, he turned his head to the sound beyond the door. The sound was gunfire. With one pull, the reef knot came free, Magda’s arms dropped, and she took a step to get her balance.

‘Get dressed,’ Suleiman said. He glared at the door. Hurriedly Magda put her clothes back on. They heard more gunfire. It sounded almost continuous and then something heavy hit the door. Magda jumped nervously. She watched Suleiman for his reaction. He growled aggressively and then moved nearer. They heard a thump. He hesitated.

‘What is it?’ Magda said. ‘Suleiman, what’s happening?’

He responded with a growl. Angrily he turned the key and pulled open the door.

Giving up was never something I did. My brain did not work that way. Cakes had a bullet wound to the head, I was bleeding out and we were on the floor at the end of a passageway with no escape, but still I fought.

The magazine in my Minimi emptied and even I questioned whether it was the end while I searched for something else. Keeping the advancing guards from overrunning our cornered position had almost reached its inevitable conclusion, but then, from behind my head, the key turned in the lock and it was the sweetest sound my ears had ever heard. A chance offered itself and I was going to grab it. I summoned all my strength, what little I had left, and using my back and shoulders with power from my legs propelled rearward onto the door and threw it open with tremendous force.

Getting Cakes and me on the other side of the door and away from the guards was my only thought. Leaving behind a trail of blood on the flagstones, I dragged us together over the threshold, hastily slammed shut the heavy door, reached over, turned the key and slammed home the metal bolt. We were safe for the moment, I thought. In the dim light, the knife came at me without warning. As I turned my shoulders, it appeared in front of me like a silent adder readying itself to bite. The strike was much too quick for me to avoid or defend. Had it not been for my ballistics vest the curved blade would have made a good start of turning my liver into
pâté de legionnaire
. My attacker, on realising he had failed in his attempt to serve me up as his
plat du jour,
reset his arm and readied to lunge for a second time. He was seriously mistaken if he believed I would allow him another undefended chance. Despite my seated position and injured, weakened state, my ingrained ability at close quarters fighting still operated at a more or less reflex level. My abdomen tightened, lifting and turning, my determined forearm punched inside and before the blade could reach me, I successfully completed the block. Single-minded about ending the threat I jabbed out viciously with my free arm and struck the man in the throat with fingers stiffened like bolts of tempered steel. It had the wanted outcome. Involuntarily, he choked violently, stepped away backwards and lifted both hands to soothe the pain.

Behind me, the guards were banging at the locked door. I pulled Cakes to one side in case they began shooting and then put my weight on my right foot and unsteadily pushed down to stand. My attempt failed and I dropped back onto one knee.

‘Mr. Hayes!’

The surprise I heard in the voice that cried out my name matched my own. I recognised the voice and searched the gloomy, windowless underground room for confirmation. There she was. Standing behind the man who still held his throat, she looked at me with candlelight in her eyes. It was Magda. Realisation stole my ignorance like a thief in the night. The man holding his painful throat had to be Suleiman Al Bousefi. Time to reflect on
fortune
and how it, supposedly,
favours the brave
was an enjoyment that would have to wait because the man, who I now clearly recognised from the photographs as Al Bousefi, rushed me. Still on one knee and weakening from the loss of blood my reaction time to the renewed assault was slow. My neck and the swinging knife only remained unconnected by the desperate reaction of throwing back my head, which caused me to topple over. Al Bousefi, sensing victory, pressed his advantage and stepped forward with the knife raised. His breathing was heavy and his throat made a sound like an energetic chicken. By way of his weight behind the attack and full commitment to the action, he stabbed downwards aiming for my neck. Magda screamed. The emotive noise was piercing. I moved just in time and the blade skimmed past my ear. The banging on the door returned accompanied by Arabic shouts. Al Bousefi swung again and the only defensive move I had forced me further back. He seized his chance and rushed for the door. He was going to unlock it. I had to stop him. Instinctively, I stretched out full length, turned my leg up, raised the foot and with considerably less subtlety than a professional footballer, hacked at the shin of the rushing Al Bousefi who tripped and fell heavily onto the unforgiving flagstones. Losing his grip on the knife it flew from his hand and travelled across the stone floor tinkling like a wine glass. Already on the move, I lifted at the waist, spun round and grabbed the face down Al Bousefi’s ankle. I pulled using what strength I had. Al Bousefi groaned as his body knocked painfully over the hard floor. Beside me, his flat back provided the ideal crutch. Using it as a platform, I pushed down with both hands and then one knee, which flattened the Islamic leader even more, but gave me the purchase I needed to make it to my feet. Despite stumbling, I picked up the knife and made it to the door. Al Bousefi was already on his feet and glaring at me wildly. Then, taking me by surprise, he grabbed Magda, who screamed, turned and ran. He opened a hidden door in the far wall and dragging Magda with him disappeared inside a secret passage.

Fatigue threatened to drown me as waves of exhaustion weakened my legs, caused my head to spin and forced my hands onto my knees. Sucking in deeply and filling my lungs with stale air, I stared at Cakes. His condition was bad. The knife fell from my weak hand and clattered on the stone. I had to find the strength necessary from somewhere. Either Cakes came with me or neither of us left. The only way to get him out was for me to carry him. I went to him. Gripping one wrist I pulled him up, balanced him against my shoulder and then, like a weightlifter, took the load on my thighs and powered the big man up. For a while, I staggered until I got the balance right and my legs accepted what my brain was making them do. Treading slowly and breathing hard my impersonation of a very bad firefighter got us inside the secret passage. I stared at it. The narrow tunnel was dark, long and without end. With the motivations of Brimstone missiles, Magda, Cakes and Al Bousefi all in my thoughts I forced one foot in front of the other and began what already felt like the longest journey.

Rhythm and balance were the key. The tunnel was level and straight, and very dark. My speed was steady, but the weight of my friend and the weakness of my muscles made hard work of every step. Fearing that the tunnel really was endless and unable, in the darkness, to see my feet I stumbled and went down onto my knees, but just managed to keep Cakes on my shoulder. Whether my body could find the energy needed to get back up, make it to the end, and out of the tunnel was unknown. I believed it, but then I was probably close to a dangerous state of delirium. The voices came to me like haunted chants from beyond the grave of souls long dead. Coercing rational thought back into my disorientated mind brought reason to the sounds. The raised voices I heard were those of Magda and Al Bousefi, carried inside the confine, amplified and turned ghostly by the tunnel.

The knowledge that they were not too far ahead and that Magda was struggling against her captor brought new resolve to my drained body and helped me find the strength to regain my stance. I rebalanced Cakes and trudged on.

‘Muntasser, can you hear me? Aksil, are you there?’ I said through the CDL for the second time, but silence was the answer. Whether the tunnel hampered the signal or whether something had happened to Muntasser and Aksil, I did not know. Getting help from the two Libyans was crucial.

A light appeared ahead. The prospect of reaching the tunnel’s end spurred me forward. The echoing voices of Magda and Al Bousefi carried back to me along the passage. The Arabic words were loud and heated. The light went out and the voices stopped. Despite the return to darkness, I knew the finish line was close and the thought gave needed energy to my pace.

Out of the gloom, the steps appeared like the welcoming embrace of a lover long missed. I stopped and assessed the climb. Each step looked like a mountain. At the top was a hatch and I could see by the seeping light it opened into the outdoors. With gravity making Cakes feel twice as heavy I made the ascent, lifted the hatch and peeked out. It was a hollow with rocks on two sides, a sloping mound and flat, open land to the west. A smoking ball of blood orange threatened to scorch the horizon and its hazy glow shaded golden-brown the barren land. The hollow was deserted and carried on the windless air was nothing except silence. I held back and tried Muntasser and Aksil again very much hoping for a response.

‘Yes, Hayes, we are here and we can hear you.’ Muntasser’s voice may not have been quite as welcoming as a lover’s embrace, but it was very near.

‘We’ve left the building through a secret underground passage,’ I said. ‘It runs westerly and surfaces about a half mile out. Can you come and get us without anyone seeing you?’

‘We will come now and keep out of sight,’ Muntasser said.

‘We followed Al Bousefi and he’s got Magda with him. I’m not sure what he intends to do.’

‘Does he have men with him?’

‘No, he’s on his own.’

‘Why have you not killed him?’ Muntasser asked.

‘Cakes and I have bad injuries,’ I said. ‘We both have bullet wounds.’

‘Hayes, give me your GPS numbers,’ Aksil said. I read him the coordinates from my phone. ‘Hayes, we are on our way.’

Jerry pointed his finger at the big display screen, but before he could speak Claudia’s relieved voice filled the room.

‘There! Magda’s signal,’ she said. The glossy nail of her index finger jabbed out like a polished assegai and directed the Chief’s eyes.

‘Jerry, can you give us a picture?’

For a few seconds, Jerry concentrated on his laptop. Claudia and the Chief never took their eyes from the screen. Then the aerial image filled the display.

‘Who’s that with her?’ Claudia said. Her question went unanswered. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘He might be Al Bousefi,’ Jerry said pensively.

‘Look! There are Hayes and Kipling,’ Claudia said. ‘He’s injured.’

‘I think it is Al Bousefi,’ Jerry said.

‘Oh no, look—’ Claudia pointed at the signal. Then helplessly she watched Al Bousefi step forward. ‘No, please, no—’

All four wheels of the Range Rover dug traction into the dirt and the heavy vehicle accelerated like a charging rhino over the rough but level terrain.

‘We do not have the time to be careful,’ Muntasser said as he steered around an unstructured rock pile and then accelerated hard.

‘No, but we must come from the west,’ Aksil said. ‘The ground is flat and the falling sun will hide us and, at the same time, give us ability to see.’

‘Yes, agreed,’ Muntasser said and changed direction like a racing driver. ‘What is the distance?’

‘Less than a mile,’ Aksil said. He lifted the Schmidt and Bender scope to his eye and viewed the horizon like a hunter.

‘When can I turn east?’

‘…at the end of this rock plateau,’ Aksil said.

Like a giant rose petal, the western sky blushed crimson, its fading power lengthened the shadows, and the air carried nothing except a softened hush. Muntasser swung the wheel and pointed the square-jawed Range Rover east. Ahead, with the falling sun behind, the tan landscape sharpened, and Aksil and Muntasser viewed a monochrome contrast of light and dark. Aksil held the scope to his eye and searched.